


Glad and Sorry Seasons

by Skarla



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of mental bunnies were harmed and turned into a blanket during the writing, Accidental Immortality, Canon-Typical Injuries, Dandelion gets a dog, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarla/pseuds/Skarla
Summary: It took him an embarrassingly long time to figure out that something strange was going on, but in his defence he didn't lead the most normal life on the continent.  For the longest time he put it down to doing his best to live a stress free existence, but when he hit his fortieth year the unlined visage in the mirror was a tad suspicious.After a rather spectacularly hurtful encounter with Geralt - honestly, he'd thought the whole thing with the Djinn had been bad - Dandelion holed himself up in Redania, and tried not to panic too hard while he wracked his brains for an explanation.  Hopefully one that wouldn't lead to Geralt using his silver sword to eviscerate him the next time they met.  If they met.  Perhaps saving the Dragon would be the last thing they ever did together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 189





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: I've read a couple of the books (translations of them in any case) and watched the Netflix show but the closest I've come to the game is seeing my neighbour play it for ten minutes. 
> 
> 2nd A.N: In my copy of the book he's called Dandilion, not Dandelion. Which personally I think looks like a nicer word.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to figure out that something strange was going on, but in his defence he didn't lead the most normal life on the continent. For the longest time he put it down to doing his best to live a stress free existence, most of the time (ignoring the mortal peril, scary monsters, and intimidating sorceresses of course), and everyone always said that stress ages you.

Still, when he hit his fortieth year, the unlined visage in the mirror was a tad suspicious.

After a rather spectacularly hurtful encounter with Geralt - honestly, he'd thought the whole thing with the Djinn had been bad - Dandilion holed himself up in Redania, finding a small, half tumbled down cottage on the edge of a wood. It had few things to recommend it besides its location - a short walk away from the sea shore and a two day ride from Oxenfurt - and a well of clear water. He worked to make it habitable, patching the roof, drying grasses to make himself a halfway comfortable pallet, and chopping wood for the fire; wearing himself out as he tried not to panic too hard while he wracked his brains for an explanation. Hopefully one that wouldn't lead to Geralt using his silver sword to eviscerate him the next time they met. If they met. Perhaps saving the Dragon would be the last thing they ever did together.

The easiest interpretation was that Yennefer had done something during that whole thing with the djinn. She had cured him after all, perhaps the cure had taken a little too well. Still, something didn't sit right with that solution. Yennefer had barely known him, and his current condition suggested an exuberant use of magic. All magic came with a price, and he found it hard to credit that a Sorceress like Yennefer, old and powerful and well trained, would have accidentally done anything. The thought that she'd done it on purpose, without discussion or payment, was even more laughable. 

He thought about the Elves as he set snares in the meadow behind the cottage and investigated the remains of a vegetable garden to see if there was anything worth salvaging from the weeds that choked it. Toruviel perhaps, or the gifted lute itself, safely stored in its case in a corner of the cottage. But that didn't follow either; he had been eighteen during that adventure, and he certainly didn't look eighteen anymore.

Nor did he look forty.

Pegasus could do with some exercise, and he needed supplies from town if he was to stay at the cottage for the whole of the winter, so once he had finished the basic repairs, he saddled the gelding and set off for Oxenfurt. There were smaller villages close by, but he needed to check in with the University anyway. The cottage he left closed up behind him, weathertight but empty, nothing but the skins of the rabbits he had snared drying slowly to indicate that it had been occupied recently.

He ended up staying a week, giving ten lectures and amassing a worryingly large pile of goods. It was unusually exhausting to be among those who knew him, to have constant repetitions of the same conversation and to worry that they would pass from subtle jealousy over his youthful appearance to suspicion. Perhaps he should buy make up, paint some wrinkles on his face? 

He left the day after the full moon market, arranging with a cheerful farmer and his nearly empty wagon to have his purchases dropped off at his new front door. Together they loaded food, tools and cloth under the concerned eyes of Shani, her red hair twisted into a long braid over her shoulder and her arms folded.

"I don't see why you can't stay here," she pouted as he turned to say goodbye, the farmer already urging his horses into a walk. He and Pegasus would catch up on the road.

Dandilion looked up at the familiar buildings and smiled sadly. "I can't," he said quietly, reaching out to brush a light fingertip across the back of her wrist. "I need the peace and quiet for a while. I'll be composing, mostly. There's a whole chest of paper and ink in the back of that wagon. You'll see me, I'll have to come to town to turn them into the library. And you can visit, if you want, before the winter snows."

"Don't worry, I have no intention of being snowed into a poky little cottage with you," she sniffed, her actions belying her scornful words as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, inhaled the scent of lavender and witch hazel that always clung to her, and then turned away to where Pegasus was dozing in the early morning sunshine. It was a long ride back to the coast.

He caught up with the wagon at the edge of town, and spent two pleasant days travelling with the farmer, whose name turned out to be Rodjir. The man had a surprisingly nice baritone voice and was willing to spend some of the journey singing with him, although he also insisted on lecturing the bard on the proper way to restore and maintain the vegetable plot at the cottage, despite Dandilion assuring him that he had no idea if anything other than the hardier herbs was even growing in it.

By the second day he had somehow agreed to take on half a dozen chickens and a puppy in exchange for giving Rodjir's children lessons in history and teaching them their letters.

"You are truly dangerous," he accused the smiling man as they turned down the dirt track towards the cottage. It skirted the boarder between Rodjir's carefully tended fields and the wood, and to their left the sparkle of the ocean could be spotted between the rolling hills that soon turned into dunes anchored with sea grass.

"Just being neighbourly," the farmer defended himself with a grin. "See the thatch roof over there, in the hollow?" he pointed with one tanned finger and Dandilion raised himself in his stirrups to see better. 

"That's the farmhouse? It's barely a mile away."

"Be a nice walk for the young'uns once they've finished their chores," Rodjir said with great satisfaction. "And my lasses can say that they've been taught their letters by a master bard."

"Ah, it's the bragging rights you were after, I see!"

They laughed together, and then Rodjir set to giving Dandilion tips on how to build a chicken coop.

The cottage had two rooms, the main one and a small store at the back that had had a gaping hole in one corner. Dandilion had plugged the gap with stones held together with white clay and sand before he had left for town, and thought that it wouldn't be too much work to add a perch and some dried grass for his promised chickens to nest in. They'd be running in and out through the main room of the cottage, but knowing his luck they'd do that anyway. He didn't tell Rodjir that, content to let the man ramble on about the benefits of wicker versus slats with regard to airflow as the cottage came into view, just a stone's throw from the edge of the wood that skirted its garden on two sides.

They unloaded the wagon quickly, and then Rodjir took his leave, wanting to get back to his farm before the evening milking. Dandilion looked around at the heap of his new possessions, and then at his patient horse, and decided to sort out Pegasus first. 

He was busy brushing, humming to himself as usual, when the Witcher stepped out of the shadow of the forest and he nearly had a heart attack.

"I'm sorry," the Witcher apologised, holding up black gloved hands as Dandilion stumbled back and dropped the brush. He had brown hair cut short around his ears and was covered head to toe in mud and blood. Despite the layer of dirt, his skin was pale - too pale Dandilion realised as he caught his breath. Even Geralt wasn't usually that pale and he was practically an albino.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, stooping to pick up the brush without taking his eyes from his new visitor. Pegasus stamped a little but didn't seem too anxious, which Dandilion took as a good sign.

The Witcher cocked his head to one side. "You must really be him, then," he said.

"What?"

"Geralt's bard, I can't imagine why you'd be asking after my health otherwise."

Dandilion looked at Pegasus and decided that the gelding would just have to live with his coat the way it was. It wasn't like the silly animal wasn't going to roll in the grass as soon as Dandilion turned him loose.

"Have you a horse? And a name?" he asked the Witcher as he untied Pegasus from the fence and led him into the long grass.

"Eskel. I lost the horse." 

"I see," the bard replied as he closed the gate behind Pegasus. As he had predicted, the animal promptly rolled into the longest patch of grass there was, sending a flurry of seeds and startled insects into the air. His white coat would be green before he had finished moving the bags into the house. "Why have you sought me out, Eskel? Is Geralt all right?"

Eskel shrugged, and then winced, raising a hand to press against his side. "I haven't seen him," the brunette said, taking a hesitant step closer, and then another when Dandilion didn't baulk. "I heard that you were settling in the area, and I needed somewhere safe for the night," he shifted a little before adding, "they didn't want to house me at the inn."

"You look like you've bathed in mud, I'm not surprised," Dandilion retorted. "All right. Go get your things while I see about making the place halfway habitable."

Eskel faded back into the trees and Dandilion set above moving his new possessions into the cottage. 

It had rained during his time in Oxenfurt, and he had been worried about his inexpert repairs to the roof, so he was pleasantly surprised to find the interior of the cottage bone dry. Perhaps he wasn't quite as useless as he had feared. He opened the wooden shutters to let light into the small space and set about unpacking.

By the time Eskel returned, the cooking supplies were scattered on the small wooden table the previous occupants had left, the fabric had been tossed at the end of the pallet to be dealt with later and Dandilion was busy sorting out his pantry, such as it was; if two slightly crooked wooden shelves and a series of iron hooks could be called a pantry.

"I presume you want to wash," Dandilion sighed as Eskel left a leather satchel by the door and began to unclasp his sword harness. "Get a fire going, if there's not enough wood by the hearth there's more around the side, and I'll fill a kettle from the well.

One of the main luxuries of his new space was a carved stone sink set into the workbench under the window. The window looked out on the vegetable garden, and the drain from the sink ran into a shallow trench full of small stones and weeds. Dandilion fished out the cork bung he had purchased from the sack of tools and brandished it at the Witcher.

"You may need to carve this to fit," he warned, before heading out to the well with his new copper kettle and the bucket. He would quite have liked a wash himself, but he had had a bath two days ago, and it looked like Eskel had not been clean in quite some time. 

The summer hadn't been overly dry in that part of Redania and the water level was reasonable when he pulled the cover off of the well. He returned with both containers full of clean water and came close to dropping it all over the floor when he saw Eskel.

"What happened to you?" he demanded, eyes fixed on the angry claw marks marring the Witcher's side. "You need stitches!"

"It's nothing," Eskel said, carefully shaving slivers of cork from the bung before testing it in the sink. 

Rolling his eyes at the stubbornness of Witchers, Dandilon set the kettle to heat on the hook over the fire and heaved the bucket onto the workbench before bending to take a closer look.

"It's not nothing," he declared. "It needs to be properly cleaned and bandaged. And I think there's a bit of claw in here."

"That would explain it," Eskel sighed, looking down at himself ruefully. "It's in a bit of an awkward position." He jammed the bung into the sink and hummed in satisfaction.

Dandilion cleared the table while they waited for the water to heat, hanging the frying pan on a handy nail next to the hearth and tidying the tools into a small chest he had bought for the purpose, which he moved into the store room with a stifled grunt of effort. That left him with a number of rough sacks, but he figured that they might come in handy for storing chicken eggs or whatever vegetables he managed to find amongst the weeds in the garden.

He glanced at the Witcher, sitting patiently on a stool beside the fire, as he worked. Eskel was pale, probably from the blood loss, but seemed calm enough. His cat-slitted eyes were more amber than gold and Dandilion thought there might be a twisting scar on his cheek, under all the mud. He was, most assuredly, not part of the vague plan Dandilion had formed to stay low in Redania, composing and thinking, until he figured out why on earth he wasn't aging the way he should be. 

He had misjudged the size of the kettle relative to the bucket, and it took another two trips to the well before the water was a tolerable temperature, but that wasn't a bad thing. Eskel had a nearly full sink to wash in at least, which he did with enthusiasm, even dunking his entire head in to rinse his hair though. Afterwards he sat patiently while Dandilion fished the piece of claw from his wound with a pair of tweezers, spread half a pot of salve over the torn skin and then bandaged it all together. The wound was not as deep as he had feared, and Eskel was adamant that he didn't want stitches in any case. 

"Two nights," the bard decided as he cleared up.

"What?" the Witcher asked, baffled. He was standing at the sink dunking his stained clothes in the murky water, and turned around with a double handful of wet cloth.

"Don't drip on the floor!" Dandilion protested. "We got it wet enough earlier. You may stay here for two nights to recover."

Eskel looked at the puddle at his feet in dismay as he dunked the clothing back into the sink. "I was going to leave in the morning."

"Well, you may leave the morning after that," Dandilion declared. "You can help me in the garden tomorrow, you probably have a better idea than I do what's worth keeping. I'm getting yet more water, dinner will be soup."

Dandilion wasn't much of a cook, but one of the dishes he had perfected during his time as a student was vegetable soup with barley and cured ham, and he had been sure to buy the ingredients for it at the market. The tiny iron stove in the student rooms hadn't been big enough to roast anything in and he had been looking forward to experimenting now that he had a nice stone fireplace - with a warming niche to one side no less - but not on this first night. Not with an unexpected guest dragging up the spectres from his past.

He wondered for an indulgent moment what would happen if Geralt suddenly appeared on his doorstep, and then pushed the thought aside as foolish. The White Wolf had made it perfectly clear that he never wanted to see him again, and Dandilion had now made himself perfectly easy to avoid by settling down, at least for a while.

Eskel found his rabbit skins and started fussing over them as Dandilion prepared the soup. The bard didn't think that he had done that poor of a job on the things, but considered that Eskel probably had several decades on him, experience wise, and decided to keep quiet. By the time the soup was bubbling over the fire and the vegetable ends had been thrown into the pasture for Pegasus to nose at, Eskel had started sewing the skins together.

"Blanket or Pillow?" the scarred man asked, looking up from his work when Dandilion returned. "I mean, there's not enough for a full blanket, but you could add to it."

"That was my plan," Dandilion agreed, settling cross legged next to the hearth and wishing briefly that he'd thought to buy a mat for the floor.

"How long are you planning on staying here?" 

"For the winter. I have a list of things I need to get done - to cut and dry some hay in the meadow, although I'm sure that Rodjir would trade me some, to build some sort of shelter for Pegasus."

"I thought that Bards usually tucked themselves away somewhere luxurious for the snow," Eskel commented, his sharp needle flashing in the golden light that poured through the open cottage door.

"Didn't fancy it this year," Dandilion shrugged. "I have vague plans to finally finish composing the-" he cut himself off. "Nevermind. Staying at an inn or a manor would have come with a set of distractions I don't want."

"Seems sensible," the Witcher agreed. "And this is a sturdy enough place." 

Eskel ended up staying a whole week, and in that time he had helped build the shelter for Pegasus in the corner of the meadow, restored the vegetable and herb plot to some semblance of order and caught enough rabbits to cover Dandilion's pallet in a rabbit fur blanket. He'd shown the bard how to smoke the meat using hooks high up in the chimney and a fire of oak branches gathered from the wood.

Rodjir had made good on his threat to send his children round for schooling, a stout boy and a tiny girl with bright red hair gathered into two pigtails on either side of her round head, and they visited twice before his visitor left. Eskel vanished into the woods for hours each time, returning at sunset with a sack of mushrooms and a bundle of firewood.

Dandilion knew that he was searching the woods for spirits or other dangers, and given that he didn't fancy wintering next to a Leshen he wasn't about to discourage him.

The six chickens settled into the back room easily enough and provided fresh eggs for breakfast, and the puppy immediately laid claim to Dandilion's pallet as his preferred bed, spending his days following the Bard closely and his nights curled up at his feet. The children had been calling him Barrel, which was not a dignified enough name for the dog of a Bard. Dandilion decided to call him Leon.

The morning of the seventh day, Dandilion and Leon watched Eskel set off with a pack filled with clean clothes and their best attempt at waybread, along with most of the rabbit jerky. Dandilion could always snare more rabbits after all, there were a number of warrens along the edge of the forest, and he knew how to smoke them now. 

He watched until the Witcher was out of sight, and then turned his attention to the garden. Apparently the best time to gather herbs was first thing in the morning. 

He had thought that he would chafe at the solitude, but to his surprise he was rarely alone. Rodjir's children took to visiting every other day as the harvest wound down, and Leon was a constant source of companionship, love and affection in his golden brown eyes as he followed Dandilion around the property. Rodjir himself dropped by occasionally. He made out that he was there to talk about the children's progress, but Dandilion knew when he was being checked up on.

The mornings had turned cool and occasionally frosty by the time Shani arrived for a visit, riding a hired horse and looking uncomfortable about it. She squealed over the cottage, admiring the softness of his rabbit fur blanket and casting an experienced eye over his bundles of drying herbs.

"I tried not to have any expectations," she explained as she produced a venison pie from the depths of her pack with a flourish. "But this is very nice. I can see you being quite comfortable here." She followed the pie with no fewer than four wineskins and he laughed as she set them on the table.

"So if I was living in poverty and squalor, your plan was to drink until neither of us cared about it?" he teased.

"Absolutely," Shani confirmed without a trace of shame. "Now go get us some greens from your garden while I warm up the pie."


	2. Interlude 1 - Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude from Geralt's POV, not quite long enough to be counted as a chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rolling with the 'Kaer Morhen has natural hot springs' trope.

Geralt arrived in Kaer Morhen a full week ahead of his usual schedule. He put it down to the lack of the chattering, nattering bard slowing him down, insisting on being escorted to whatever Baron or Lordling had agreed to winter him this year and forcing the pair of them to stop at every tavern on route.

He claimed it was for Geralt's own good of course, that the more popular his songs became the more likely it would be that Geralt would be paid and, you know, not run out of civilisation with an angry mob stoning his heels, but the Witcher was convinced that the real reason was that he hated camping and wanted to sleep with as many pretty serving wenches as possible.

Eskel was the last to make his way to the great stone fortress, making his way up the Trail well after the first weeks of winter had turned it into an icy nightmare of a route.

"Thought maybe you wouldn't come this year," Geralt commented as he closed the gates behind his brother.

"And miss out on the hot springs and your ugly mug?" Eskel teased as he placed his pack into Geralts offered hands. "I've been looking forward to soaking out my aches since the first frost."

"What happened to Scorpion?"

Eskel groaned. "Don't even. I need a pint of white gull in me before I can tell that story. I probably wouldn't have made it back here if it hadn't been for your little bard."

Geralt nearly dropped the pack as his brain struggled to parse that. "What?" he asked, but Eskel was already halfway across the courtyard, rubbing his hands together as he made a beeline for the door.

Later, once they had all gathered in the kitchen to eat Vesemir's rabbit stew and catch up on the events of the year, the throw away comment worried at the back of Geralt's mind, but between Eskel's stories of life on the Path and Vesemir's list of winter repairs he didn't feel like he could get a word in edgeways. 

Finally Lambert turned to Geralt with a sharp grin. "What about you, O White Wolf?" He teased. "I keep on hearing about you out on the path. Seems like every tavern strummer from here to Cintra is singing about you."

He wasn't going to get a more perfect opening than that, so he turned to look at Eskel. "You mentioned that Dandilion helped you get back here?" he asked.

Eskel shook his head and nearly slopped mead onto the table. "No, no. He just patched me up after a kikimora nest took out Scorpion and nearly took out me," his brother explained. "I was only going to stay the one night, but he insisted I wait to heal properly. Cleared out the woods around his little cottage as a thank you." Eskel peered across at Geralt, his amber eyes narrowing. "What bridges have you tried to burn this time, huh?" he demanded.

Lambeth barked out a laugh. "When does Geralt not burn bridges?" he asked rhetorically, responding to Geralt's scowl with an obscene gesture.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Geralt lied. "Dandilion and I parted ways months ago."

"And I bet it wasn't an amicable parting," Lambeth said. "Finally told the airhead to fuck off, did you?"

"He's not an airhead," Eskel snapped, as if it were nothing to defend the bard he barely knew to the brothers he walked the Path alongside.

"Enough," Vesemir growled, reaching out and plugging the flagon of mead. "Winter is long, no need to drink the stores dry on the first night we're here together. Get some rest, Eskel, the Path is hard. Bed, all of you. Tomorrow we repair the roof of the dining hall, I want you rested with clear heads."

"Don't know why I still come back here," Lambeth grumbled, but he rose to his feet and let the subject drop.

"Because Kaer Morhen is home," Eskel pointed out, heaving himself out of his chair. He quirked an enquiring eyebrow at Geralt, who nodded in response of the unasked question, and they headed up the stairs together, leaving Vesemir to sit in front of the fire. Lambert headed into the first room at the top of the stairs, as usual. Geralt and Eskel made their way down the draughty stone passage to one of the larger chambers.

"I fixed the window," Geralt offered. "It's not pretty, but there's no draught."

"I've been camping on the trail the past few nights, any roof will do," Eskel said ruefully, rubbing at his neck.

Geralt knelt at the hearth to coax a fire into crackling life, leaving Eskel to go through his packs. They had shared a room as trainees, huddling together in one narrow cot during the cold winter nights as frost lined the inside of the stone walls. It was a tradition they had left behind after the trials, but after one particularly cold winter Eskel appeared, wrapped in a fur and still shivering, at Geralt's door.

"Fuck this," he had said, climbing into the bed and spreading the fur across Geralt's four layers of blanket.

After that, they had moved to one of the larger rooms with a bigger bedstead, and never discussed it again. Geralt turned from the fire to see Eskel spread a new blanket on the bed, an patchwork of faded red, brown and yellow.

"It reminds me of autumn leaves," Eskel said as he smoothed it down. "She had a blue and grey one as well, but this one felt warmer, for all that they were exactly the same.

"It's fine work," Geralt concluded after stepping closer to inspect the tiny stitches. "Where did you get it?"

"Poviss."

"Hn. I suppose something good had to come from there eventually."

Eskel huffed a laugh and sat on the edge of the bed to change his travel worn socks for a thicker, clean pair. Tomorrow morning they would head down to the hot springs and wash every stitch of clothing he had taken on the path with him that year, as Geralt had done for his own things a few days earlier. For now, drunk and aching from the trail, being warm and dry would do.

"I assume you don't want to talk about it," his brother said quietly as they settled under the blankets, Eskel staring up at the ceiling and Geralt on his side, watching the fire. "He wasn't scared of me, not really, but he seemed scared of the idea of you."

That made Geralt roll over. "Scared?" he questioned, raising himself onto one elbow and making Eskel grumble as a chilly finger of air made its way under the quilt. "I didn't do anything to frighten him. I just..."

"Told him to go away? Well, he has made himself very easy to avoid, settling down like that. And he was scared, the one time I tried to talk to him about you. My nose doesn't lie."

Geralt lay back down with a huff. Dandilion, scared? Of him? It seemed so unlikely, the bard had always been fearless, reckless, trusting Geralt even when he had little reason to do so. What in Chaos' name could have changed in those short months that they were parted, that would turn the trust into fear? Geralt knew that the questions would haunt him all winter, and felt a flash of resentment towards Eskel, now passed out and snoring softly, for raising them in the first place.


	3. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dandilion does a lot of thinking

If you had asked Dandilion a few years ago, he would have told you that spending the winter alone in a small stone cottage sounded like the worst sort of torture. He was shocked to find, trudging out one winter morning with Leon scampering at his heels to break the ice in Pegasus' trough, that despite the cold reddening his fingers he was happy. A strange, uncomplicated sort of happiness that had nothing to temper it. It was different from the gleeful high he got from performing in front of a crowd, from the pleased satisfaction that warmed his belly when he heard a stranger whistling one of his melodies, but it was happiness nether the less.  
  
He wrote more songs about Witchers, careful not to mention Geralt by name, and flagged down passing traders to deliver copies to Oxenfurt's repertoire library. Passing traders were always a good source of gossip, and usually happy to share their knowledge for a mug of hot tea even if Dandilion isn't interested in buying anything, and so he learnt over the course of the winter that the roads in Temeria were not being maintained correctly, that Calanthe of Cintra had named her granddaughter Cirilla her official heir, and that Aedirn was at the brink of civil war.  
  
Other than making a mental note to be extremely careful with regard to what he might have to say about Elves next time he happened to be in Aedirn, the most interesting tidbit was about Calanthe and Cirilla. Dandilion was pretty sure that Princess Cirilla was Geralt's child of surprise, and therefore making her heir of anything seemed like a pretty dangerous move, politically speaking. Destiny could draw her away at any time, after all.  
  
Or maybe not, seeing as Geralt was intent on giving Destiny the finger. If he'd have asked Dandilion, he would have pointed out that those who scorn Destiny would serve themselves better by not claiming the law of surprise in the first place. But of course, his opinion hadn't been sought. Dandilion hadn't spent much time in Cintra over the past few years, although he had once been a regular visitor to Calanthe's court, where Pavetta had been fond of his ballads. Perhaps, as Geralt was insistent on ignoring the girl, he should scope things out in his stead?   
  
Snowdrops were pushing their way through the fast melting drifts when Dandilion properly applied himself to the actual question at hand. He wrote down timelines on the back of discarded drafts, most of which he burnt in a fit of paranoia brought on by a fast souring skin of wine. He could remember finding his first grey hair at twenty five, when he had been invited to winter at the manor of one of Redania's court nobles, and he was fairly sure that he had stopped aging well before the incident with the dragon eggs. That left a fairly large swathe of time - nearly fifteen years - and for most of that he had been tumbling around the countryside, singing songs and bumping into Geralt with, what was in hindsight, distressing frequency.   
  
Perhaps one of the monsters Geralt hunted had somehow infected him without either of them realising? Possessed him? Was he really himself?   
  
Thankfully for his continued sanity, Rodjir junior and Annabelle chose the moment he started diving down that particular rabbit hole to bang on his door for the first time in weeks and insist on showing him the fruits of their winter practise time. Annabelle had knitted him a scarf and a hat with only a few dropped stitches in places, and Rodjir Junior had carved a set of pan pipes that he wanted Dandilion to teach him to play.   
  
"Well, you have had a good winter, haven't you!" he said approvingly as he ushered them inside, it being far too cold still to hold lessons in the front yard. Leon looked up from where he had been dozing on the hearth rug and yawned widely, displaying the gap where he had lost one of his baby incisors, before getting up and padding over to greet the children with snuffles and licks.   
  
"First let's sing the history songs that we learnt last year, and then you can write out your letters for me while I get these pan pipes of Rodjir's in tune, all right?" he said, getting his lute down from it's hook.  
  
"Yes master Bard," the pair chorused, standing on the hearth rug with their backs to the fire. After a moment of contemplation, Leon sat down between them and three sets of eyes looked enquiringly at Dandilion, who grinned at his attentive audience and struck the first chord.  
  
"Wheeeeeen old king Sambuk took to his bed," he prompted, leading them through the ditty he had been taught when he was a child that detailed the genealogy of the Redanian royal family.   
  
He fed them at noon from his dwindling winter stores, and sent them on their way well before the afternoon milking. "Rodjir, lad, can you ask your father when he is next travelling to Oxenfurt please?" he asked the boy as the children gathered their things. "I need to make the trip myself, before the mud gets much thicker, and I'd prefer company on the road."  
  
"I will!" Rodjir promised.  
  
When the children returned the next day, it was with the news that Rodjir senior would be travelling to Oxenfurt in three days and would be happy for Dandilion to accompany him. Annabelle offered her services to walk up and take care of the chickens with great solemnity, and Dandilion accepted just as formally, and offered her a copper penny for her trouble. He had half planned to turn the birds loose in Pegasus' paddock, but having someone keeping an eye on them certainly increased the chances of him coming back to the same number of birds.  
  
"Will you be staying all year?" Annabelle asked him as they ate barley soup from three miss-matched bowls. "You'll need to start preparing the garden. Mama is already digging ours."  
  
"I... Honestly don't know," Dandilion replied. "I don't plan to, but sometimes my plans have to change at short notice."  
  
"Why are you going to Oxenfurt?" Rodjir asked, wiping soup from his chin.  
  
"I wrote songs over the winter and submitted them to the University library," Dandilion explained, giving all of them a second helping to finish the pot. "I need to go and see if they were accepted, and collect my royalty fee if they were. I'll also teach a few classes as a guest lecturer, and get paid for that I expect, and see if any of the Oxenfurt nobles want me to perform for them, for a small fee, and then I will have enough silver coins to buy chicken feed and horse feed and person feed, with perhaps enough left over for a new shirt."  
  
Annabelle's eyes were wide as she stared at him. "How will you know you have enough coins?" she asked, her little forehead wrinkled with worry. "Papa always goes with cheese, not coins."  
  
Dandilion smiled at her and gestured with his spoon to remind her to keep eating. "Mathematics this afternoon then I think," he said, biting back a laugh when both children groaned.  
  
*  
  
It was strange to leave the cottage after so much time cooped up with it, but Dandilion was looking forward to being back on the road, even if it was only for the short trip to Oxenfurt. Rodjir was good company, and he shared his cheese with a liberal hand. Dandilion supposed that he could afford to be generous; the cart was stuffed to creaking with rounds of cheese wrapped in waxed cloth, and Leon was doing his very best impression of a guard dog, running off any squirrels or mice that so much as dared to sniff in its direction.

Dandilion had originally planned on leaving the half grown hound with the children, but Leon had had other ideas, and so Dandilion spent his evenings by the campfire making a harness out of twine and old rope for the pup to wear in town and listening to Rodjir's constant stream of advice.

It took most of the trip to town for Leon to learn to walk nicely in his new harness next to Dandilion's side, but by the time the familiar red tiled roofs came into sight Leon was walking sedately to heel and only occasionally dragging the bard around when he spotted a particularly cheeky squirrel.

He parted ways with Rodjir at the causeway that lead to the University, warning the friendly farmer not to wait for him as he really had no idea how long he was likely to be in town. His first move would be to stable Pegasus in the University stables and let the servants know he had arrived so that they could prepare a room for him. Then he needed to check in with the Master Archivist, and possibly the Dean, and once that ordeal was over he would be free to find Shani and see if she'd be willing to buy a poor starving bard some dinner.

Three hours later, with a far fatter coin purse and a plate of roast guinea fowl in front of him, he was feeling on top of the world. That was until Shani reached over with an unsteady hand to poke his face, nearly slopping what was left in her glass into his lap.

"What cream are you using?" she demanded. "Your crows feet are barely visible still, and mine are deep enough to bury potatoes in when I smile."

A cold leaden weight dropped into Dandilion's stomach. "Oh, a local remedy I picked up in Lyria, my dear. Beeswax and rose water and a particular herb that grows on the slopes of the mountains there. I'm afraid I've nearly run out, so I'm sure I'll be looking as wrinkly as everyone else soon enough."

"You'll have to travel!" Shani cried, giving them both a top up. "Travel back to Lyria and buy more!"

Five minutes later she had passed out in the remains of her guinea fowl and was snoring raucously. Luckily they had picked that particular inn because of it's proximity to her lodgings, and for all her noise Shani was a slight thing. Dandilion hoisted her over his shoulder after paying their bill and set off, mind working furiously.

If Shani had noticed that he didn't look his age, then others surely would. He needed some way to make himself look older when he came to town, at least. Rodjir and his family didn't know his age, so they would think nothing of it. Strangers were safe. But friends, especially old friends like Shani? 

It was dangerous, and yet the thought of disappearing, when he didn't even know what had happened or how long it would last? That thought was worse still. 

Once Shani was safely deposited in her bed and Dandilion was on his way back to his temporary room, he had thought over and discarded the idea of using cosmetics. He was no artist with a brush, and the likelihood of it being noticed was too great. By the time he had greeted the night warden and found his way to his room, the difficult decision had been made. 

It would be itchy and unpleasant, and possibly look entirely stupid, but it was time to see if he could grow a beard. 

Leon greeted him joyously when he entered the room and he knelt down on the woollen rug to press his cheek into the soft fur between the pup's ears while Leon wagged his tail hard enough that his rear paws danced.

"Missed me?" Dandilion murmured redundantly. "Let's let you out for a comfort break, and then we'll go to bed. We have some shopping to do in the morning." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid that it's a bit shorter than I'd like but there's a time jump between this and the next section, plot wise. I hope this continued 'slice of life' is enjoyable regardless! Coming up next, another Geralt interlude...


	4. Interlude 2 - Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes an unpleasant discovery.

Ciri was half asleep on top of Roach when Geralt reached the small forest Eskel had mentioned, and the cottage Dandilion had taken over. It was sturdy enough, he realised as he approached. A solid looking roof, and a small paddock for Roach with bright daffodils lining the fence. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, but in the weeks it had taken them to travel up from the ruins of Cintra, spring had brought warmth and life to the countryside and perhaps Dandilion had decided that a fire during the day was unnecessary.

He let Roach loose into the paddock, leaving her saddle on the fence for now and hoisting the exhausted girl child into his arms to carry her towards the cottage, her tangle of white blonde hair half obscuring her smudged face. 

His heart sank into his boots when he knocked on the door and there was no answer.

"Dandilion? It's me," he called. "I need your help."

Still nothing.

Feeling the first stirrings of annoyance at the lack of response - even if the bard was still cross with him, he had never outright ignored him before - Geralt lifted the latch himself and pushed inside. 

"Dandilion, really-" he started to say, but stopped dead when he realised that was talking to dust motes. The cottage was empty.

"Son of a Skelliger," Geralt swore, and Ciri stirred in his arms. 

"What?"

"Go back to sleep," the Witcher growled, pacing over to the bedstead in the corner and depositing the child on the mattress. She had caught a cold a few days before and her temperature was still higher than was normal for a human. As the mattress sunk under her weight a familiar scent rose into the air, chamomile and fresh bread. Dandilion. 

So, he was in the right place after all.

Geralt was a Witcher with decades of experience, and so of course he did not spend the first moments after making this unwelcome discovery panicking so hard that he completely missed the letter discarded on the table.

When he did find it and read it, the panic he wasn't feeling gave way to ice cold terror, because it was a letter from the dead. Signed by Queen Calanthe, it was an invitation to play at court. In all the years he had known him, Dandilion had never once given up an opportunity to perform, which mean that he must have been either in Cintra or on his way to Cintra when Nilfgaard invaded. And Geralt had completely missed seeing him. 

"Geralt?" Ciri said from next to his elbow. "I'm thirsty. Where are we?"

"We're near Oxenfurt,"

The girl yawned and looked around the cottage. "Where's your friend then? This place is empty."

Geralt frowned down at the letter in his hands. Nilfgaard might have a take no prisoners approach, but Dandilion wasn't Cintran. And Bards tended to be reasonably popular wherever they went. Hopefully if Dandilion had come into contact with Nilfgaardian troops, he had managed to talk his way out of trouble, and if not... No, he would have been able to talk his way out, Geralt was sure. The Bard's silver tongue had proven itself useful more than once over the years, not that Geralt would have ever admitted that out loud. The Bard's ego was inflated enough as it was. 

Ciri had vanished when he hadn't answered immediately. Geralt found her outside, standing beside a small stone well and drinking deeply from a bucket. 

"We'll stay here until you've recovered, and then we ride north," Geralt told her.

"You don't want to wait for your Buttercup friend to get back?"

"Dandilion," Geralt corrected her gently. "It's dangerous to spend too much time in one place, Cub. Get some more rest, I'll see if there are herbs in the garden for tea."

Herbal tea was evidentially an attractive enough proposal that the child didn't argue with him, obediently turning and heading back indoors, taking the scent of stale sweat and sickness with her. He would have to see about heating up some water to wash their clothes and themselves. The stop might not have be everything he had hoped it would be, but that was no reason not to make the most of it. 

  
The following morning, Geralt was roused from meditation by a banging on the door, along with shouts about trespassing. He opened it quickly, although he suspected Ciri was already awake and clutching at her knife while feigning sleep.

"I am not trespassing," he protested to the stout local he found on the other side of the door.

"Yes you are!" the man, a cow farmer judging by his boots, insisted. "This is the cottage of Master Bard Dandilion, you are not he, therefore you need to get out."

"I'm his friend!" Geralt protested. "I came to visit him, I didn't expect him to have gone off to Cintra!"

The farmer frowned suspiciously. "His friend, you say?"

"Geralt of Rivia," Geralt introduced himself. 

"Rodjir of Ghyll Farm," Rodjir replied, settling back with his hands in his pockets and a frown creasing his forehead. "Dandilion mentioned a Geralt. How long will you be staying here then?"

"Not long," Geralt said at once. "As he isn't here, I'll move on tomorrow I expect. How long has Dandilion been gone?"

"Two weeks, left with a big hulking muscly fella." Geralt nodded. Two weeks... Hopefully Dandilion would have barely passed into Cintra and would have had plenty of time to turn round and avoid Nilfgaard. The travelling companion was a bit more of a mystery - surely Calanthe wouldn't have sent a royal guard along with the invitation to perform at court?

Rodir was looking past him with knowing brown eyes. "Need any provisions, Geralt of Rivia? Our stores are well stocked at the moment, we can spare a little."

Geralt considered a moment, and then dug his coin purse from his pocket. "That would be a kindness," he replied. "Food that will last would be welcome."

Rodjir accepted a handful of coins with a nod. "I'll send my boy over before the evening milking," he promised. "Cheese and some of last autumn's apples, and I'll see if my wife feels like making up a batch of waybread for you. Don't go filling his head with stories of monsters and adventure. Dandilion does that enough."

"He is a better storyteller than I could hope to be," Geralt said, finding this truth surprisingly easy to admit to a stranger.

Rodjir nodded at him. "Safe travels, Geralt of Rivia." 

He turned away without waiting for a response, to mount the shaggy chestnut mare that he had left tied to the paddock fence. Geralt watched him leave with a strange feeling in his chest. The conversation had been... Unexpected. Clearly Dandilion had settled for long enough to make friends with the locals, and he also hadn't left for Cintra alone. The letter left behind had made no mention of an escort, and if Rodjir had known who it was, Geralt had a feeling that the farmer would have said.

"Is everything alright, Geralt?" Ciri asked from the bed.

"Yes," he assured her. "Feel up to helping me heat water? We need to wash our clothes and ourselves."

Ciri slid out from under the cloak she was using as a blanket, knife in hand. "I'm feeling a lot better," she confirmed. 

"I'll get the water, gather the dirty clothing from the packs and put it into the sink," Geralt instructed. Despite being raised in a Castle, Ciri had so far been happy to learn how to better take care of herself. Geralt only hoped that this willing attitude would last, at least until they reached Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger? I mean, you all wanted Geralt to suffer a little for his attitude, right? I'm afraid that you'll all have to suffer with him, until part 3 is finished. ;)
> 
> I am working from a timeline, so if anyone is completely confused as to how this fits in with events mentioned in the books/series, let me know and I'll explain.


	5. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dandilion makes some new friends

Two weeks earlier...  
  
Dandilion was extremely confused, nay, bewildered, verily, utterly baffled... In any case he was standing in front of his cottage with a letter from Queen Calanthe inviting him to perform at court in one hand and an annoyed brown haired Witcher he had never seen before growling in his face. It wasn't quite how he had pictured his day going when he had climbed out of bed that morning.  
  
"Fucks sake Bard! Are you even listening to me? Stop fanny-arsing around already and unpack," the Witcher growled, looking as though he'd like to reach out and shake Dandilion until his teeth rattled. Instead he seemed to settle for scrubbing a hand through his short dark hair until it stood up in tufts.  
  
"Why do you even care?" Dandilion demanded, hands on his hips, not moving an inch. "Who are you? And how do you know that Nilfgaard is planning on attacking Cintra anyway?"  
  
"Lambert," the Witcher growled. "And anyone with ears knows that Nilfgaard is on the move. Fucking hell, are you always this stubborn?"  
  
"And my other question?" Dandilion said pointedly, raising both eyebrows as he still hadn't got the hang of lifting just one.   
  
"That fucking song," Lambert took a deep breath and clenched his fists. "Your annoying-arse song about Geralt."  
  
The bard frowned. "Toss a coin?" he hazarded.  
  
"Yeah, that fucker. It's... helped." The larger man shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushed. "Your words are... You can't write more from a stinking Nilfgaardian jail cell. Or if you're dead."  
  
"Nilfgaard should have no quarrel with me," Dandilion protested, but he stood back from the doorway and put the letter down on the table. "However, I can see that travelling to a court that may soon be under siege could be considered unwise."  
  
"Too fucking right," Lambert grunted, leaving the door open behind him as he came inside, golden eyes flicking around the small space.  
  
"Are you staying?"   
  
"Till I'm satisfied that you're not going to trip merrily off to Cintra as soon as my back is turned," the Witcher asserted, dropping his pack by the door in almost the exact same spot that Eskel had left his.  
  
Dandilion opened his mouth to retort, thought better of it, and decided to start making lunch instead. Lambert was probably starving.  
  
Lambert was a lot more forthcoming once his stomach wasn't adhered to his spine, Dandilion was pleased to discover. The swearing didn't lessen in the slightest, but that would only be an issue if the children appeared, and they were currently both occupied with the spring planting. Over the course of the meal he revealed that he was a few years younger than Geralt, that he also spent his winters in Kaer Morhen, and that he was friends with a Cat Witcher named Aiden.   
  
"A wolf and a cat, huh? That's an odd combination," the bard commented as he tipped breadcrumbs out the window for the birds.   
  
"I'll probably meet up with the bastard after this," Lambert said thoughtfully, glancing at his pack. "I was on my way to the port when I overheard someone complaining about you."  
  
"Oh, so that's how you found out I was planning on going to Cintra? Eavesdropping?"  
  
"Poncy prick was complaining to anyone who would listen that he deserved that invite, not you," Lambert said with a grin. "Given the irritating nasal whine in his voice, it's obvious why the fucker wasn't invited. I wouldn't want to listen to him for free, let alone pay him to make noise."  
  
"Why the port?"  
  
Lambert shrugged. "Rumour was that there was a contract for a group of Sirens. I was going to piss Aiden off by getting there first, but now that I've detoured to you he'll probably swoop in behind my back." He grinned at Dandilion's confusion. "We have a bet on," he elaborated.  
  
"Ah, a wager between Witchers!" Dandilion shared his grin. "That sounds... My dear Lambert, if we leave now we can probably get there at the same time. Would you mind if I tagged along with you? A Witcher Wager sounds like a terrific ballad."  
  
Lambert blinked at him. "You want to write a song about me?" the scarred Witcher asked.  
  
Dandilion turned to his half packed saddlebag, and started to shove the rest of his clothing inside. "Absolutely!" he said cheerfully. "I've written far too many about Geralt, it's time for some variety. Do you mind, if Leon and I tag along?"  
  
Lambert shook his head slowly, and Dandilion felt his grin widen. As he had already been preparing to leave the cottage for several months while he travelled to Cintra and back, there wasn't a whole lot left to do before he was ready to close the door behind him. He offered Lambert use of his razer while he finished packing, the Witcher's goatee looking rather worse for wear after whatever adventures he had enjoyed or endured on his way to the coast.  
  
Dandilion's own beard was a sorry affair and if he hadn't had an ulterior motive he would have scraped it all off after the first week. He knew from running around the countryside with Geralt that it had a habit of growing in sparse patches on his cheeks, but he hadn't realised the full horror. He had a neckbeard. It made him look like a suspiciously skinny court adviser, giving the illusion that his already round face was a moon perched incongruously on his narrow shoulders.  
  
For the last ten days he had been staring at himself in the mirror, carefully scraping with his razer and trying to make something decent out of the mess that didn't give the impression that a dead animal had adhered to his face. An itchy dead animal.  
  
Lambert obviously didn't have that problem. He had a gloriously full goatee that only required a trim to make him look entirely presentable. Dandilion tried not to pout over the unfairness of it all as he rolled up his rabbit fur blanket and used it as the core for the new bedroll he was creating, which if he had estimated everything correctly would sit between the saddlebags on Pegasus' rump and give him something to rest his lute case on.  
  
Pegasus huffed over being saddled and loaded with Dandilion's supplies, although truly he had packed as lightly as he could manage. Most of the bulky items suitable for cottage living had been packed into a wooden crate and stored under the bedframe, but it was undeniable that he had accumulated a lot more stuff than he usually did over the course of the winter. It was very different from his first trips around the continent, with just his lute and a waterskin that was filled with wine more often than not, as he walked from village to village, singing songs to earn a bed for the night.   
  
Now he had a horse and a dog and saddlebags full of clothes and food. He suspected that if Lambert was anything like Geralt, they'd be camping under the stars, and he intended to make the best of it this time, rather than waking with an empty belly and an aching spine after lying shivering all night.   
  
"Ready to go?" Lambert appeared at his elbow as he tightened the last strap. Dandilion accepted his shaving kit back with a smile and tucked it away into the saddlebag.  
  
"Yes, I'm good. I hope Leon can keep up."  
  
"I can always pass him up to you," the Witcher offered unexpectedly.   
  
"I'm a little surprised you're not telling me to leave him behind," Dandilion admitted as he swung himself into the saddle.  
  
Lambert frowned at him. "He's your dog," he shrugged. "It's none of my damn business if you want to bring him along." He studied Dandilion for a long moment before turning to his own horse and patting her roughly on the neck. "I'm not my prick of a brother," he said roughly. "S'not my place to tell you how to live your life."  
  
Dandilion gaped inelegantly for longer than he wanted to before getting his features under control. "I... Appreciate that."  
  
"Shut the fuck up," Lambert grumbled. "Let's get going."  
  
*  
  
Lambert's Aiden-finding instincts were apparently spot on. The walls of Novigrad had just come into view when the other Witcher melted out of the undergrowth to stroll at Pegasus' side.  
  
"Whose the tagalong?" the newcomer asked cheerfully, reaching up to let Leon sniff at his fingers from his perch at the front of Pegasus' saddle.  
  
"Bard," Lambert grunted, pulling his horse to a halt and swinging out of the saddle to thump the other Witcher on the shoulder in a way that seemed designed to send the shorter man staggering. Aiden, predictably, barely twitched.  
  
"I'm here to observe, and I suppose to smooth your path in any way I can," Dandilion explained. "I was hoping to write a song about your Siren wager."  
  
Aiden frowned up at him. "A song? About Witchers?"  
  
Lambert smacked him again. "He wrote that annoying-ass jingle. Toss a Coin."  
  
Aiden's golden eyes widened in recognition. "Oh, that! I been getting paid more often since that started circulating. Fair enough, Master Bard, come and witness our wager."  
  
"I already invited him, dickhead," Lambert pointed out as he mounted his horse and they set off again.  
  
"That doesn't mean that I can't invite him as well, prick," Aiden retorted. Dandilion didn't bother trying to hide his amusement as the two bickered cheerfully.  
  
The town of Novigrad was rather taken aback to see two Witchers rather than one, but after a tense moment in which it was explained that the Witchers did not want double the reward, and pointed out by Dandilion that surely two Witchers meant that their monster problem would be solved faster, they were offered free accommodation in an empty fisherman's house. Someone even sent a lad round with a basket of bread, smoked fish and ale.   
  
"Right, I'm off then," Dandilion said once they had eaten the contents of the basket. "The masses won't delight themselves. Or they probably will, and we won't overly enjoy the consequences. Nothing Siren-related is happening before tomorrow, yes?"  
  
"The captains all seem to agree that they're focusing on the fleet when they leave at dawn," Aiden confirmed.  
  
"I'll try not to stay out too late then," Dandilion grinned. It was barely dusk, plenty of time to make some coin and still get a few hours rest.  
  
"Where are you going to play?" Lambert asked.   
  
Dandilion shrugged. "Wander the streets until I find a busy tavern with no bard in situ," he said. "That's how it usually works."  
  
Aiden and Lambert shared a glance, and then tossed back the last of their ale. "We're coming too," Aiden announced.   
  
"That's really not necessary," the bard protested. "I'll be fine, and you need your rest before tomorrow."  
  
"Fuck rest," Lambert snorted.   
  
Aiden rolled his eyes and slung a heavy arm over Dandilion's shoulders. "You're not going to change our minds, might as well shut up and accept with grace," he advised.  
  
"But-"  
  
"We fancy some entertainment tonight, and rumour has it you're the best in six kingdoms," Lambert said as he lead the way out into the chilly streets. "Let's see if we can't find a place that doesn't stink of piss and sour ale."  
  
  
  
It was, Dandilion would reflect later, one of his better evenings, despite the strange circumstance. The tavern they found was unusually pleasant, the ale good quality and the barmaids unbruised and cheerful. They seemed to be on the edge of the merchant district, with the patrons dressed in bright colours and free enough with their coin. Aiden and Lambert settled on a bench by the door with a tankard each and kept a wary eye on the room as they talked quietly, tapping their heavy boots along to some of the faster tunes, and for Novigrad, the smell of fish was barely noticeable.  
  
About halfway through the set, the cook came out from the kitchen with a bowl of meat trimmings for Leon and requested two songs, which seemed more than fair repayment for his dog's dinner. The pup spent the evening lying in the empty lute case and watching carefully, but he seemed to take no issue with either the crowds or the music.   
  
Dandilion finished the set with a song about Sirens he had learnt as a boy, and with that reminder firmly in people's heads, called it a night and passed his hat around. Aside from the usual drunken grumblings over entertainment walking out the door, they took it remarkably well.  
  
The innkeeper approached with a lumpy package in his hands as he coaxed Leon out of the lute case so that he could put the instrument away in it.  
  
"Good set, Bard," the man said. "Usually we'd offer dinner, but as you'd already eaten, here's breakfast for you and the Witchers. If you're still in town tomorrow, you're welcome to return again, although I might need to send the boy for another barrel of ale!"  
  
"Thank you for your hospitality," Dandilion said sincerely. "I don't know what the plan is after the Sirens are dealt with to be honest, but I'll certainly keep your invitation in mind. Goodnight."  
  
"Night, Bard." The barkeep hurried away to deal with a customer disagreement at the bar, and Dandilion swung his lute onto his shoulder and untied Leon from the bench he had appropiated for the evening.  
  
Aiden and Lambert were waiting for him by the door, and together they headed out into the dark streets.   
  
"It's not too late?" Dandilion asked anxiously.  
  
"Naw, it's fine," Aiden said easily. "Would have been up this late talking anyhow. Plus the music was good."  
  
"Eskel was right," Lambert grinned, slapping Dandilion on the shoulder. "You are the best bard in six kingdoms. Maybe seven."  
  
Dandilion snorted. "No I'm not," he protested. "I have a good enough voice, but I'm hardly the stuff of legend."  
  
"Your original songs, they stick," Aiden disagreed. "That's a rarity. Don't put yourself down. You might not have the voice of a siren, but your gift is real enough."  
  
"Oh look, there's our cottage. Time for bed," Dandilion said, eager to change the subject. The Witchers exchanged a look but let him.   
  
"Are you accompanying us to the docks in the morning?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"We'll be sure to wake you when we leave," the Cat Witcher promised.  
  
"Gonna be fucking freezing," Lambert groaned.


End file.
